


Lies

by captivation



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captivation/pseuds/captivation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that she's dead, Violet is finding it difficult to lie to the people around her, especially the boy who loves her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies

When Violet was alive, she almost never told the truth. It was thrilling, to look her father in the eye and just lie, even if it was about something unimportant. I’m not hungry. I’m just cold. Of course I’ll take the trash out. He thought Violet was his little girl; she had him wrapped around her finger.  


Her mom was harder to lie to. She was so naïve. Violet felt bad sometimes, lying to her mom, telling her school that day was fine, as she buried her fists in the sleeves of her sweaters, feeling the sting of the fresh cuts that she had run home to cover her wrists with. Vivien was too nice; she just wanted her sweet daughter back. But things had changed for Violet, and it was partly her mother’s fault.  
  
When Ben had slept with Hayden, Violet was mad. If you love someone you should never hurt them. Around her parents, Violet stayed mad, sulking and not eating, because they refused to talk about their problems with Violet, like she was still a child. But inside, she was thinking of the next time she could cut, or when she could take a shower, just so she could cry and no one would know.  
  
The move to the Murder House was, interesting, to say the least. Her mom had work to busy herself with, tearing down wallpaper and painting. Violet didn’t have to come home from school and find her still in bed, crying because she’d lost her baby and her husband.  
  
Her father seemed more awake, like he had hope for his marriage. As if moving away from the house where he had cheated on his wife would change anything. But now he could see patients in the house, keeping up the charade of a father who actually cares for his family.  
  
Violet liked the murder house because it was full of surprises. She never knew when Constance would pop out of the woodwork, or when Addie would show up in the basement, rolling that red ball to who-knows-what.  
  
And Tate. He was a ball of surprises. Every time they talked, Violet would learn something new and confusing, or he would touch her somewhere new and she would experience a whole new feeling, and nothing about him really made sense until she had died.  
  
It was also after she died that lying became difficult, especially to other ghosts. She obviously lied to her parents all the time-they had no clue she was dead-but it made her chest hurt, like her heart wanted to tell the truth, but her brain knew lying was for the better. Violet knew the truth would come out eventually, but wasn’t exactly sure how to tell her parents she was dead, and stuck here forever, so if her mom really wanted to move, she would be leaving her only daughter behind.  
  
While Violet could manage some lies to her parents, Tate was different. Even thinking about lying to him made her stomach turn, because he always knew. She couldn’t explain it, but Tate saw right through her.  
  
The first time she made a conscious decision to tell the truth, she was with Tate. Her parents were gone for the day, so they were lounging in her bed, various items of clothing strewn across the room. They were lying next to each other, kissing. One of Tate’s hands was buried in Violet’s hair, and the other was under her threadbare tank top, pressed flat against her stomach. Violet wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. She didn’t know which part of his body to touch first; his chest, smooth and free of bullet holes, or his arms, strong and scarred.  
  
Their legs were tangled together, and every once in a while Violet would feel the hot press of Tate’s dick against her thigh, and it was a new feeling. Tate had never allowed things to get this far. She liked it though, his attraction to her literally manifesting against the smooth skin of her inner thigh.  
  
Violet had always wondered what the rest of Tate’s body would feel like. She knew his hands were calloused and rough, but the skin on his chest was soft. She wondered what it would feel like against her own, without the stupid tank top between them.  
  
But as she pulled away to lift her top over her head, Tate held her hands gently, stopping her.  
  
“Violet, wait.” She looked at him, angry. She just wanted his skin against hers. “Do you love me?”  
  
A rush of heat swept through Violet’s body, one part overwhelming affection, one part panic. Now, if Violet had been alive, she would have said ‘no,’ or maybe ‘I don’t know,’ and scoffed, because she was tough, and then kissed him again. But she was dead, and stuck with Tate forever, and he loved her, and she was lucky to have him. So she could continue lying and welcome the ache back to her chest, or she could just tell the truth.  
  
She nodded. “I do. I love you, Tate.”  
  
He smiled, and Violet decided right then she would never lie to Tate ever again, just to see his eyes light up.  
  
Tate let go of her hands and her shirt was tossed across the room, and Tate’s arms looped around her back and pulled her into him, their bodies smoothing against one another. Tate’s hands trailed like red hot silk down her stomach and to her thighs, nudging them apart gently. Violet fell onto her back as Tate ripped her underwear off, the fabric tearing in protest.  
  
“Hey!” Violet cried as he flung the pieces off the bed. Tate smirked and moved over her, knowing that while she was acting angry, his tendencies towards violence turned her on immensely. He kissed her and she bit his lip as his thumbs grazed her nipples. “Tate,” she murmured, lifting her hips to meet his. “Come on.”  
  
“Say it again.”  
  
“Say what again?”  
  
“Say you love me.”  
  
Violet sighed and put her head back. “I love you, Tate.”  
  
“I love you too, Violet,” he replied, brushing his nose against the pale skin of her neck.  
  
“I know.” And not because he had said it so many times. Violet knew Tate loved her because of his actions; the way he would watch her as she moved about her room, or how he would hold her hand even if she was right next to him, or how he would lurk protectively in the shadows during the few times her parents forced her out of her room, or how he would sometimes sneak up on her and kiss the back of her neck. Tate loved her, and had no problems showing it. Violet, on the other hand, found herself struggling over those words; the ‘l’ getting stuck on the roof of her mouth, forcing itself back into her throat.  
  
Violet pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, forming her lips around the word ‘love.’  
  
“I love you, Tate,” she said, just because she could.


End file.
